Wabi-sabi – “a Japanese aesthetic of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete” – is, in my view, deeply related to satoyama culture’s rustic, practical sensibilities and seamless integration of the inner life with the built and natural worlds. It is also, I suggest, intrinsically related to the characteristically elusive – and profoundly marginalized – qualities of the sacred feminine. While the former gives it accessibility and value as an aesthetic lens, it is the latter relationship that offers modernity a corrective to its myriad ills of systemic imbalance.

I was first exposed as a child to the elegance of the Japanese aesthetic through woodblock prints and other art in my family home, and while I always found it mysteriously compelling, in these last twenty plus years of annual visits and stays in Japan I’ve found myself deeply – often achingly – drawn toward the simplicity, subtlety, and nuance represented in so many traditional Japanese crafts, artistry, and design. What was it that I found so attractive? What was evoked in me that I longed so desperately to bring to consciousness and integrate into my very being? Each encounter felt like a kind of remembrance, a tantalizing hint of wholeness, the promise of a recovery of something lost. Or at least a pointer toward it.

My appreciation of the wabi-sabi aesthetic goes beyond intentional creations of artwork and tools and structures to become a broader way of seeing and appreciating and embracing the vicissitudes of our give-and-take with the manifest world. The entirety of being and non-being, doing and non-doing, light and dark, including all shades and shadows in between. It is said that oneness leaves nothing behind, and while wabi-sabi modestly honors and understatedly celebrates this truth, it is up to the observer/witness to discern it, or not.

It is a new insight to me that qualities of the sacred feminine – celebrated in many forms throughout Japanese history and culture, including by the “ama” free divers described in a previous blog post – are directly and indirectly expressed in wabi-sabi’s inherent elusiveness and could arguably be said to define its deepest value and contribution as a lens through which an alternative may be perceived to modernity’s profoundly off-balanced ideals of ordered, masculine, transcendent perfection and endless technological progress and growth, the farther and more separate from nature the better.

Indeed, the beauty of the wabi-sabi aesthetic entirely depends upon those aspects of wholeness that our Western sensibilities have all but completely discarded. The sacred feminine – the unseen, intangible, qualitative, non-linear, non-rational…the dark, wet, messy, earthy, and imminent – is literally nothing if not relational, intimate, local, resilient, and regenerative. And the wabi-sabi aesthetic points toward the sacred feminine’s ineffable nature without revealing it directly, because it cannot. “The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao.” Nevertheless, just as the emptiness between the spokes of a wheel simultaneously define its shape and provide its utility, the sacred feminine gives the wabi-sabi aesthetic its value as both a lens on the crucial edges of the manifest world and a powerful medicine for a more harmonious way of Being in relationship with Nature and each other.

If the above is true, then perhaps the rough dialectical contours of a deeply healing Nature-integrated paradigm – at once ancient and urgently contemporary – are thus revealed: Satoyama culture can be seen as a lived expression of timeless sacred feminine values, and its distinguishing qualities can be perceived and appreciated through the pattern language lens of the wabi-sabi aesthetic.

In the following article, originally published on Global Oneness Project’s webzine, California-based author Leonard Koren writes with characteristic eloquence about the history and many facets of wabi-sabi. Years ago Koren literally “wrote the book” on wabi-sabi, and when I first met him a few years ago (when I worked at Global Oneness Project) and subsequently read his book I was tickled to find an English speaker who so clearly “got” (and beautifully described) so many of the qualities I have found magnetically compelling for so long. I am grateful to Global Oneness Project to be able to share his writings here.

The Beauty of Wabi-Sabi

By Leonard Koren

In 1992, while living in Japan, I embarked on a project to locate and define the kind of beauty that I felt most deeply attracted to. By “beauty” I meant that complex of exciting, pleasurable sensations ostensibly emanating from things—objects, environments, and even ideas—that makes us feel more alive and connected to the world; that urgent feeling we equate with “the good,” “the right,” and “the true.”

Instinctively I was drawn to the beauty of things coarse and unrefined; things rich in raw texture and rough tactility. Often these things are reactive to the effects of weathering and human treatment. I loved the tentative, delicate traces left by the sun, the wind, the heat, and the cold. I was fascinated by the language of rust, tarnish, warping, cracking, shrinkage, scarring, peeling, and other forms of attrition visibly recorded.

Chromatically, I was enamored of objects and environments whose once-bright colors had faded into muddy tones, or into the smoky hues of dawn and dusk. I was particularly taken by the non-color colors, gray and black. When closely observed, there is an infinite spectrum of blue-grays, brown-grays, red-grays, yellow-grays. . . And green-blacks, orange-blacks, violet-blacks, purple-blacks. . . .

I was also aroused by the beauty of things odd, misshapen, and/or slightly awkward; what conventional thinking might consider “not in good taste” or “ugly”. I was aroused by understated, unstudied, unassuming objects that possessed a quiet authority. I gravitated toward things that reduced the emotional distance between them and I; things that beckoned me to get closer, to touch, to relate with.

And lastly, I was attracted to the beauty of things simple, but not ostentatiously austere. Things clean and unencumbered, but not sterilized. Materiality, pared down to essence, with the poetry intact.

Having identified what this beauty looked and felt like, I wanted to understand it better intellectually. With pencil and paper I diagrammed the contours of a plausible aesthetic universe. Provisionally, I encapsulated my new domain in the phrase, “a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.”

Over the next year and a half, in libraries both in Japan and the United States, I pored over volumes on any subjects I thought related. Ultimately I condensed a mountain of vague, amorphous, and sometimes contradictory information into a paradigm. The skeletal foundations of this paradigm came from an old diary I kept when, as a young man, I had studied the Japanese tea ceremony.1 Subsequently I packaged this paradigm as a book which I titled Wabi-Sabi: for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers.

In this book, for the sake of rhetorical clarity, I broke wabi-sabi down into roughly two components, which I would characterize now as “form” and “spirit.”

By “spirit” I mean the philosophical basis; the underlying ideas that arguably give rise to wabi-sabi’s form.

In truth, identifying wabi-sabi’s idea substratum—it’s spirit—was an imaginative exercise in induction and inference. Nevertheless, I felt the notions I finally came up with were useful and true. For example:

* On a metaphysical level, wabi-sabi is a beauty at the edge of nothingness. That is, a beauty that occurs as things devolve into, or evolve out of, nothingness. Consequently, things wabi-sabi are subtle and nuanced.

* The beauty of wabi-sabi is an “event,” a turn of mind, not an intrinsic property of things. In other words, the beauty of wabi-sabi “happens,” it does not reside in objects and/or environments. By analogy, if you fall in love with someone or something—say a physically unattractive person, place, or thing—thereafter you will perceive this someone or something as beautiful (at least some of the time), even if the rest of the world doesn’t.

* Wabi-sabi is, at root, an aestheticization of poverty—albeit an elegantly rendered poverty. As such, wabi-sabi is a democratic beauty available equally to rich and poor alike.

* Wabi-sabi is the antithesis of the Classical Western idea of beauty as something perfect, enduring, and/or monumental. In other words, wabi-sabi is the exact opposite of what slick, seamless, massively marketed objects, like the latest handheld wireless digital devices, aesthetically represent.

This last point proved especially resonant for many readers of my book. Perfection is one of our culture’s preeminent values. Indeed, we often tacitly define beauty as perfection objectified. But somewhere buried in our psyches is the realization that being human fundamentally implies being imperfect. So when someone suggests that imperfection may be just as beautiful—just as valuable—as perfection, it is a welcome acknowledgement.

There is just one minor problem with all that I have related thus far. Although “wabi-sabi” appears to be a Japanese term, if you look “wabi-sabi” up in a Japanese dictionary, you won’t find it.

“Wabi” and “sabi” have long existed in Japanese culture, but as separate terms. “Sabi” is ancient. It is found in the first Japanese poetry anthology compiled in the 8th century. At the time, “sabi” meant “to be desolate.”

By the 12th century, “sabi” had become an important ideal and critical term of Japanese poetry. “Sabi” then meant “taking pleasure in that which is old, faded, and lonely”. It also referred to “a beauty of things withered.”

Almost four hundred years later, in the late 15th century, “wabi” emerges as a term to describe a new aesthetic sensibility just beginning to be used in the tea ceremony. For the next one hundred years “wabi” is very fashionable.

During this one-hundred-year period, the meaning of “wabi” expands; “wabi” even subsumes all the meanings of “sabi”. In fact, the seminal moment of “wabi” tea is the use of sabi-like terms to describe the new “wabi” objects and environments.

Then from the mid-1600s on, “wabi” ceases to be fashionable. . . .

By the mid-20th century some scholars use the term “wabi,” while others use “sabi,” to describe essentially the same thing. Some scholars use both terms interchangeably. I’ve never found a satisfactory explanation other than that, for various historical reasons, the Japanese have always been comfortable with semantic ambiguity and vagueness.

Today, if you ask an educated Japanese person if they know what “wabi-sabi” means, they will invariably answer “yes”. If, however, you ask them to define “wabi-sabi,” they will probably be unable to do so.

In spite of wabi-sabi’s enormous conceptual breadth—its rangy embrace of disparate ideas and material manifestations—”wabi-sabi” nevertheless seems to fill legitimate artistic, spiritual, and philosophical needs. To date, more than a dozen other authors have written books that borrow major elements of my paradigm and married them with the term “wabi-sabi.”

So even if “wabi-sabi” didn’t “officially” exist before, it exists now.

Twenty-plus years have elapsed since my initial wabi-sabi formulations. Back then, the industrialized world was just beginning its headlong drive to digitize as much of “reality” as possible and transfer it into a “virtual” or “dematerialized” form. Back then, wabi-sabi’s nature-based sense of “aesthetic realism” offered genuine comfort and inspiration for sensitive, creative souls. Will wabi-sabi’s quintessentially analog sensibility still provide emotional grounding and creative nourishment going forward into the future? For perspective, and possibly insight, it might be helpful to look back at the time and place when the “wabi” tea ceremony—the form and spirit of wabi-sabi—was being developed.

Kyoto, Japan in the sixteenth century was embroiled in civil conflict. The mood of the populace was sober, if not dispirited. Many valuable collections of refined Chinese utensils—the kind of “perfect” objects then favored in the tea ceremony—were being destroyed. Substitute objects were needed. Japanese-made surrogates, though less refined and relatively crude, were available and reasonably priced. So they were used.

The locus of this “wabi”/wabi-sabi invention was the tea room. In contrast to the luxurious tea rooms that had previously existed, the “wabi” tea room was rustic and often housed in a small, detached hut, usually surrounded by a tiny garden.

At the beginning of what I would call the “wabi era,” tea rooms were four-and-a-half tatami mats, or roughly 81 square feet. By the era’s end, tea rooms could be 1/3 that size, or 27 square feet. At the beginning of the wabi era, ceremony participants entered the tea room standing up. By the end of the era, they entered crawling in through a small opening on their hands and knees.

This compression of space, driven by artistic and “spiritual” motives, had the effect of:

As the wabi era progressed, tea rooms and objects became simpler and more modest. Improvisation became commonplace. Objects from non-tea ceremony contexts were increasingly adapted for tea ceremony use. For example, rice bowls were repurposed as tea bowls. Even broken-and-repaired objects were used. Cause and effect made visible—the consequences of use, misuse, and accident—was appreciated.

From the foregoing, it is apparent that the “wabi” sensibility—the form and spirit of wabi-sabi—began mostly as an aesthetic accommodation to the catastrophic realities of the day.

There are the parallels in our time. Increasingly, we can make out the dark outlines of catastrophic scenarios to come. It is predicted that more and bigger climate-related events will intersect catastrophically with an expanding global population. How far will our material resources stretch? After the damage is repeatedly cleared away, will most of us be forced into smaller and smaller living environments, with fewer, and more modest objects?

This need not be tragic. The beauty of wabi-sabi is rooted in modesty—even poverty—that is elegantly perceived. The aesthetic pleasures of wabi-sabi depend on attitude and practice as much, or more, than on the materiality itself. Subtlety and nuance are at wabi-sabi’s heart. Wabi-sabi resides in the inconspicuous and overlooked details, in the minor and the hidden, in the tentative and ephemeral. But in order to appreciate these qualities, certain habits of mind are required: calmness, attentiveness, and thoughtfulness. If these are not present, wabi-sabi is invisible.

Footnote

1: The Japanese tea ceremony is what we today might call an “art performance.” The host—the artist—prepares and serves bowls of whipped, powdered green tea in an environment consisting of objects, flowers, and a calligraphic scroll, all specifically selected and arranged for his/her guests. The guests, in turn, usually have some prior knowledge of tea ceremony etiquette and artistic precedents, so they can, and do, respond to the host’s gestures in an informed spirit. Most contemporary tea ceremonies are, however, highly formalized rituals with little, if any, real invention. Nevertheless, tea ceremony still offers profound aesthetic rewards for receptive participants.

Japan’s population is declining at a rapid rate as the average age of its citizens climbs. Having peaked at nearly 128 million people in 2004, when those aged 65 or over comprised about 20%, the population is expected to drop to 95 million by 2050, when the share of senior citizens will be about 40%.

And the rate is increasing, with 2012 marking the steepest drop ever for the second straight year, with deaths outpacing births by 205,000. For the first time, the proportion of elderly 65 and over surpassed the number of youths age 14 and under, in all 47 prefectures.

The near and medium term implications of this change are mounting. With elderly farmers dying off and those remaining having more difficulty being alone, there continues a flight to urban centers. Tokyo, Osaka, and Nagoya now host nearly half the entire population. If government agricultural subsidies are cut from passage of the TPP trade agreement, it is sobering to think of what that will do to the remaining small farmers and their land. The government already spends over a third of its income supporting the elderly. But can this huge outlay continue?

After all, in 1965 there were nine workers paying taxes for every retired person. Now there are just two.

Everywhere one looks across society there are impacts to be seen, economic, social, environmental. To be sure, a falling population will require less energy and consume fewer resources, but one wonders what kind of infrastructure will meet the remaining demand. Hopefully it will be a relatively soft landing, but the risks of it being hard, or at least turbulent, are huge.

In any case, the scale and nature of this demographic transition is unprecedented in the world. I believe this is the first time a highly industrialized country has faced such a persistent and profound decrease in population. And when taking into account all of its attendant challenges and implications, it is an open question whether this unfolding could possibly result in a resurgence of satoyama spirit – albeit decades hence, when the population returns to Edo-era numbers. One can only hope.

In early 2001 I happened upon an intriguing book at the Kinokuniya Book Store in San Francisco’s Japantown called, The Japanese Dream Home, by Azby Brown. Published that same year, it contained a fascinating history of Japanese architecture and provided an early basis for my better understanding Japanese design and aesthetics. This closely-read book remains on my book case, sitting next to another amazing book Azby wrote years later, titled Just Enough. The latter is a beautifully written and illustrated (by the author) book that provides scholarly (but highly readable) and valuable substantiation for many of the themes of this blog, and as such, appears at the top of my list under the above Inspiration menu.

Eleven years later I happened to meet Azby when Helena Norberg-Hodge invited him to present at the March 2012 Economics of Happiness conference in Berkeley. When I mentioned to him about my enjoying his first book, his jaw dropped and he said I was perhaps the only person he’d ever met who had read it! Little did he know that it has often been trotted out over the years to show house guests about my love for Japanese design.

Once again, UN University’s Our World 2.0 web magazine has published an outstanding essay well worth re-posting. The Future of Food in Japan, authored by the site’s editors in their usual clear-eyed fashion, touches on a host of daunting issues and challenges facing the country’s food self-sufficiency, energy security, and lifestyle in coming decades.

The writer’s compelling analysis aside, the links alone make the piece worthwhile (see, for example, Antony Boys’ pioneering and thorough analysis of the relationship between agricultural productivity and energy scarcity written in 2000 – a paper that long ago helped shape this blog’s theses).

But what is especially interesting – vis-á-vis Satoyama Spirit’s notion of Japan’s eventual return to a resilient lifestyle based on harmony with nature – are the as-yet-unread-by-me views of Eisuke Ishikawa, a prominent author who writes about the Edo Period. The Our World 2.0 article says:

Under present trends, the food supply problem will evolve and significant difficulties will emerge. Boys himself refers to the work of Eisuke Ishikawa, a writer on the Edo Period economy, who talks about the state of Japan in 2050 (“2050 is the Edo Period”, Kodansha, 1998) and essentially describes something like a “slow crash” — dwindling imports, falling exports, economic and population decline. (While there is no English translation of this book, you can read similar works by Ishikawa on the Japan for Sustainability website.)

Ishikawa’s work (at least those translated into English, care of JFS’s above link) are undoubtedly on my short-list of anticipated readings. Hopefully, they will provide the impetus for a future post (or posts!).

In what is undoubtedly a positive development for the natural world, the concept of “ecosystem services” is poised to go mainstream. This is a good thing because the concept is based upon the idea that our status quo economic models do not properly recognize the value of so-called externalities and fail to take into account the “services” that complex and biodiverse ecological systems provide to humanity. Seeing the world through such expansive eyes – through the wide-angle lens of ecosystems – is a refreshing, and promising, departure from the conventional narrow economic mindset. As such, one might say (pun intended) that the concept is, er, “gaining currency.”

For all of its promise, however, I would argue that its worth is really as a “bridge concept” – an advance to be sure – but nonetheless just a stepping stone on our longer path toward a greater awareness of our proper relationship to Nature. To arrive where we really need to go we must expand our awareness in ways that are not easy for those of us embedded in the modern world. Toward that end, I am offering the following (lengthy) email dialogue in the hope that it might contribute to progress on our individual and collective journeys. Continue reading

Given the inherently un-sustainable nature of nuclear power generation – to say nothing of its profound lack of resilience – I have no doubt that the future of Japan, and indeed the world, will ultimately be nuclear free, perhaps within mere decades (albeit with residual nuclear contamination persisting for tens of thousands of years, well into the “Long Now”).

But what I hadn’t anticipated until recently is the possibility of Japan shutting down all of its nuclear reactors within months. Yet it is a real possibility, and if it does happen it will propel Japan far ahead of other industrialized countries in transitioning to a more harmonious relationship with nature. Continue reading

In the three months since Japan’s major earthquake in March, many evocative articles and inspiring anecdotes have been published that, taken together, could well represent the early contours of a new, emerging paradigm of remembrance of our fundamental and inextricable oneness with nature and each other.

When I began musing about the revitalization of satoyama culture it was not at all clear how we might get “from here to there”, given the inertia and entrenchment of our current paradigm of separation, but if there is any silver lining to be discerned from the horrible dislocations of Japan’s still-unfolding tragedy, perhaps it is that the Japanese people are not letting this crisis go to waste in terms of using it as an opportunity for reflection. Many observers are recognizing that Japan is undergoing a profound transformation – starting even before the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear disaster tore its societal fabric – and now the potential for real change across seemingly disparate sectors is being revealed in increasingly practical terms. Continue reading